Unfinished Pieces November (Rudo)

Rudo – Love (Shona).

This could’ve been a very great short story,love in the ‘new’ South Africa. Where Africans are called foreigners and amaKwerekwere . How do you express love in a place where hate is the official language?


Built like a sacred Mayan figurine, toned like over ripe pears ,
dun rings circling her eyes like boundary marks ,cautioning of the dangers of being lost in those naturally protruding windows of her soul.
Her chunky,dainty cheeks are sculptured delicately with inflated beauty..
Her hair sprouts out her head like a natural diadem .


However much she tried to ignore him,she could feel his stare burn little hearts on her skin, embroidery of love totems engraved to forever ignite a memory she so wish to erase..
Around him,her body erupts with goosebumps and itch for an embrace,
She chastise herself and feels betrayed by the pace with which her blood would race.

Unfinished Pieces November .

Poetry Monarch.

Unfinished Pieces November (Mama)

I am 6 days late,i meant to make November a month of letting go,the most important part in the process of recreation. I read once ,from a beautifully written drabble that unfinished pieces are like puzzles of a beautiful picture. Frustrating ,irksome and dreadful when you’re still trying to put your pieces together, but the end product is always worth it. They might be helpful in my writing at a later stage, i fully concur. But i feel like they are holding me back,quelling the urge to recreate and reinvent ,leaving no space for growth.
So this here is what i have been miserably dwelling on for a whole year and few months .Enjoy.


Mama needed not to be verbal to warn us,

It took one fierce facial expression to make us repent….
..that fiery stare ,

Eyes glittering with calm rage ,her deep brown lenses on pure white retinas flashing alert lights like pulsing arteries ..

Gritted teeth ,and taut forehead muscles bulging.
An intense moment of silence that screams:
“Retreat…or face the wrath of the stir!”

It still astounds me how that wooden spoon would suddenly appear,
Or how Mama’s rage would quickly dissolve into the thin air.

Unfinished Pieces November.

Poetry Monarch.